Discerning Taste
by MegaBadBunny
Summary: The Doctor laughs, and he's surprised by just how nasty the sound is, how horrible he can make it when he really wants to. (for the tumblr angst prompt "Don't fucking touch me.") Rated mature for language.


"Don't touch me."

"Doctor—"

" _I said don't fucking touch me_ ," he snarls, and Rose rapidly backpedals, eyes wide.

"S-sorry," she stammers, hands held up. "I just thought—"

The Doctor laughs, and he's surprised by just how nasty the sound is, how horrible he can make it when he really wants to. "Well, isn't that a nice change of pace?" he asks. "You, thinking."

Tears pearl in the corners of Rose's eyes, but she blinks them back before they can fall. "Something's got into you," she says, but she doesn't sound sure.

 _Perfect_ , he thinks miserably.

"Make it easier, would it?" he asks, bridging the distance between them in long, lazy strides. His steps ring heavy over the grating, echoing ominously throughout the console room. "If you could tell yourself this wasn't really me. If you could convince yourself I'm not like this, this isn't who I am. But there's just one little problem with that, sweetheart—"

(But there's that look on her face, with the round shining eyes and pursed mouth and quivering lower lip, just the same way she looked after her father died, only he's the one putting that expression on her face now, he's the one doing this to her, and it burns him, and he can't really go through with this, can he?)

His feet stop just inches from hers, and he leans down until his face is uncomfortably close to hers, until her eyelashes flutter at his proximity and he can feel the heat radiating off her cheeks.

(He can. He has to.)

"—you've never exactly had the most discerning taste in blokes, have you?" he asks.

Rose steps back, her cheeks flushing an impossible red. "I don't—it's not—I wouldn't—"

"Oh, but you do," the Doctor says, painfully aware of the condescension dripping from every syllable. "It is. You would."

His face splits in a wide grin. "Don't worry. It's sort of adorable, actually. Or at least, it would be if it wasn't so repulsive. Maybe once I muscle my way past the gag reflex."

"God, why are you saying all of this? You know I would never do anything—"

"—that I didn't want you to?"

"I was gonna say 'inappropriate,'" Rose replies, hugging her arms close.

Her words pierce him somewhere deep inside (somewhere between his lungs, if he thinks about it), and he doesn't allow himself to wonder why.

"Inappropriate," he says, his voice gone soft and thoughtful. "Careful, now. That's a five-syllable word. Wouldn't want to tax your delicate little brain too much, now would we?"

Rose's gaze turns hard. "Stop it."

"Stop what? Being honest? Telling the truth? You're always harping on about the truth, though, aren't you? Maybe you shouldn't ask for something you can't handle."

"Please, stop."

"Poor little Rose Tyler, sitting on the concrete in front of the Powell Estate, no dad, no money, no future, hoping there was something better for her out in the universe," the Doctor sneers, pushing forward until Rose is trapped between him and the control desk. "Well, this is it, love. And that's the truth."

"Doctor, please, something's been wrong with you ever since—"

"This is as good as it gets!" the Doctor shouts with a grin. He slams his hands down on either side of her, caging her in, and she shrinks back in fear. "Do you hear me? Do you understand? Is that idea small enough for you to wrap your little grey matter around? It doesn't get any better for you. This, right here, right now—back off to your beans on toast, your job in a shop, your too-blonde hair and your too-short skirt and your shrew of a mum and boyfriends who piss away your money or spend all their time down the pub—this is as good as you deserve. Anything else would be…"

He pauses, perversely savoring the savage deliciousness of the moment. The next word tastes exquisite in its vindictiveness and he holds it in his mouth, running his tongue over its jagged edges.

"… _inappropriate_ ," he breathes.

Rose slaps him before he even has a chance to blink.

Blinding-white light pops in his vision and a resounding _CRACK_ echoes around the room, interrupted only by the sounds of Rose's heavy, ragged breathing. Staggering back, his mouth falls open and his hand flies up to his jaw out of reflex, covering the Rose-shaped handprint that's surely blossoming there. It's all the Doctor can do to keep himself from reeling in shock, both from the force of the blow and the anger flashing in Rose's eyes. But he can't let that happen, can't let anything get through, can't give in to that pleading face or the dull ache suffusing his entire body.

He pushes out another laugh, stretching his jaw. "Fantastic," he says, chuckling darkly. "You have no idea how _good_ that feels."

Choking down on a sob, Rose looks at him one last time, and he knows she's searching his face, desperately hunting for anything, any tiny little hint, that this isn't him. Temptation wells up in him, and he almost gives in—maybe he could—? But no, that would be too obvious—but he can turn to stone when he wants, or as good as, anyway, and soon Rose's face goes dark.

She scrapes the heel of her palm across her cheek, leaving a watery smear of mascara in its wake. She doesn't say anything. She turns and runs away, the TARDIS doors banging shut behind her.

The Doctor closes his eyes, a heavy sigh escaping him. Hands back on the console, he slumps forward, his body suddenly too heavy to stand up under its own weight. The ache he felt earlier is gone, leaving a sickly hollow feeling in its stead.

"So," he says, his head bowing. "That's it. She's gone. For good. And you didn't even have to raise a finger."

His fingertips dig painfully into the coral, arms trembling with the force of his grip. "Satisfied?" he asks through gritted teeth.

From his hiding-place in the shadows, the Master smiles.


End file.
